


Willful(ly) Abandon(ed Fics)

by Amorak



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2015-02-23
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:44:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amorak/pseuds/Amorak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a forest god...stiles is sick...stiles is androgynous jackson whitmore...stiles is a magical fox...stiles gets to mulligan life, not necessarily in that order</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stiles is sick

Stiles is not particularly surprised to find Derek poking at the clutter on his desk. "Hey," Stiles says, "There's more meatloaf if you want."

Lately Derek's visits have been more frequent and less overflowing with impending doom. It's almost to the point that Stiles can see him and not immediately assume The Apocalypse.

If this were one of those more-social-than-survival visits, Derek would have taken him up on the meatloaf. He'd have nagged Stiles about the messy room and picked up a book to read quietly for a few hours, Stiles futzing around on the computer in companionable silence. But it's not that kind of visit.

"Stiles, we need to talk."

And this---this is not a phrase Derek Hale makes lightly. Stiles can feel his heart kick into a double-time staccato. He's suddenly keenly interested in talking about anything but what fresh tragedy Derek came here to discuss.

"Who's dead?" Stiles asks bluntly. If there's one thing he's learned, it's that pain doesn't go away because you'd prefer to postpone it.

Derek winces, sort of how Stiles imagines he'd look getting punched in the face, if he weren't an over-testosteroned werewolf. "No one is dead. Stiles, stop that. Sit down."

Stiles realizes he's folded and shredded an old math assignment to bits. He lets the pieces flutter to the floor and sits down at his desk.

Derek moves forward to hover over Stiles, abs approximately the level of Stiles' nose. "Can I--Do you mind if--" Derek breaks off and stares somewhere over Stiles' right shoulder. "Look. Something has changed in your scent and I think if I tried I could better understand what it is."

"Tried, like, got all up in this and smelled around a bit?" Nothing about this conversation is doing anything to calm down Stiles' heart.

"Yes." Derek ignores this attempt to lighten the mood. He just hovers over Stiles looking stoic and serious and uncomfortable and Stiles is really not happy with this conversation.

"Ok. Fine. Whatever. Let's just--" Stiles tosses himself on the bed and yanks his t-shirt off. He gestures vaguely at his torso. "Have at it."

Stiles' easy acquiescence must have reassured Derek, who settles himself on the bed next to Stiles. As Stiles closes his eyes, Derek places a hand gently on his jaw, tilting Stiles' head to one side and leaning in to breathe deeply at the crook of his shoulder. If this were any less of an unsexy situation, this would probably get really awkward, really soon. Small favors.

Derek nudges at Stiles' shoulder until he rolls over onto his stomach. His nose skims down Stiles' back, to the bend of his waist, then back towards his tailbone. "Ticklish," Stiles mutters.

Derek doesn't respond, just lays his head against the small of Stiles' back, nose somewhere in the vicinity of Stiles' kidney, and breathes deeply.

Stiles wants, very much, to be able to lay a hand on Derek's neck and tease at the hair of his nape, but instead he clenches his fist and asks lightly, "Anything to report, Captain?"

Derek sits up and looks down at Stiles as he rolls back over. He looks way too serious. Stiles, feeling vulnerable, sits up as well and they proceed to gaze seriously at each other until Derek breaks the silence. "There's something growing inside of you. It's not foreign, exactly, but it's not right. It shouldn't be there. I think we should take you to Deaton immediately."

Stiles would swear the world stopped for a moment, dragging out his devastation into an endless loop. He opens his mouth to respond, but the only word he can force out is simply "No." Rejection. Denial.

"Stiles." Derek sounds annoyed. "Deaton will be able to tell us what to do."

"No," Stiles repeats.

What he means is 'No, this isn't happening' but what he says next is "No, Deaton can't help." There's a raw, aching tightness in his throat as Stiles suddenly thinks of his father. "I need to go talk to my Dad. Thanks for letting me know."

Stiles stands to walk away, but Derek catches his elbow and holds him in place. "Stiles, what is it?" Derek is looking less stoic and more genuinely concerned than he was a few minutes ago.

Stiles would worry about this, Derek's emotional state, but he's already moved on to freaking out about what this is going to do to his father. "Derek," he starts. "Derek, I really need to talk to my Dad. I'll text you, OK?"

Derek's hand falls away. "Call me," he says. "Call me if you need anything, and I'll be here."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The waiting room chairs haven’t gotten any softer in Stiles’ absence. There’s nothing like a cheery yellow brick of plastic numbing your balls to remind you than you’re in a place where children go to die.

Stiles has his head pointed towards the TV, ostensibly watching the PBS cartoons that tend to dominate daytime television options in children's hospitals, but really he's watching his Dad. The harsh fluorescent lighting casts his face into a grey pallor. He's never looked so old.

Stiles wishes, not for the first time, that he had a choice. That he didn't have to put his father through this. That he didn't have to put himself through it.

When they're finally called to Dr. Mendez' office the nurse is terse and Stiles is grateful. She takes his blood pressure and asks how he's feeling. "Just another day of bodily betrayal," Stiles says breezily.

For the doctor, Stiles gives an honest if post-hoc explanation for his urgent need for a mid-checkup checkup. "Bruising," he says. "Achy joints. Excessive bleeding and slow wound healing." He pauses, considers. "I've been dreaming that there's something growing inside me." He points toward the spot Derek had been most interested in the night before, at the base of his spine.

Dr. Mendez is suitably concerned, and schedules the biopsy and spinal tap early the next morning. Stiles has never expressed undue concern about recurrence or phantom symptoms. It's gratifying, to be taken so seriously, so easily.

"Just like that?" His dad asks.

"Just like that," Mendez says.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stiles clenches his fist at the behest of the phlebotomist getting ready to skewer him with a "medium" needle. Stiles recites the alphabet backwards in Spanish. He'd rather just talk to someone, that's the best distraction, but his dad has paperwork and the lab techs are too busy chatting with each other to notice Stiles' discomfort.

The blood coming out of him is very red. When he was little he wondered why it wasn't pink.

When the last vial is filled, the needle is pulled none too gently from his arm--*ugh*--and a cotton ball and medical tape are slapped over the tiny puncture. Stiles hates the fucking medical tape. It's a bitch to get off and always rips his arm hair out.

Next is the tedious process of confirming that yes, all 13 vials of his own blood are correctly labelled. Then signing the forms, then he's free. Ish.

The last order of the day is a quick jaunt to medical imaging. Stiles can admit that the black and white images of his chest cavity are interesting. He has a few, still, from before.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Several hours later Stiles and his dad are going home, and he's grateful. He knows that he is probably not coming home tomorrow night.  
  
Stiles isn't allowed to eat before the spinal aspiration, but he heats up leftovers for his dad. There needs to be a food cushion underneath the avalanche of alcohol his stomach's gonna be subjected to tonight.

The Sheriff is sitting at the dining room table, staring blankly at nothing, when Stiles sets the plate down in front of him. His dad opens his mouth to speak, to say something very meaningful and important no doubt, so Stiles jumps in before he can start a conversation neither of them are ready to have. "I'm really tired, Dad. I'm going to bed. I'll see you in the morning?"

His dad heaves the exhausted sigh of those whom the Universe has recently fucked over royally. "I'll be here if you need anything. Anything at all."

"I know, Dad. Good night."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Derek is waiting in the armchair by Stiles' bed.

"Fancy meeting you here," Stiles says.

"You didn't call." Derek pairs his words with a glower that Stiles doesn't believe is entirely warranted.

Stiles starts yanking his clothes off so he can go to bed. If Derek minds, well, he can deal. "To be fair, I said I'd text."

Stiles tips alarmingly to the side while struggling with his jeans. Just as he loses his balance and heads towards the carpet, Derek is there, cupping his elbow in a broad hand and pulling Stiles back to his feet. "You didn't text, either."

Stiles slaps at Derek's lingering hands. "I had a long day, okay?" Derek doesn't look particularly placated, and Stiles elaborates, "We won't get the test results until tomorrow." He continues, a little snidely, "I didn't think there was anything to say."

"What tests, Stiles?" Derek asks. He doesn't look like he has any intention of letting Stiles go to sleep without dragging the whole dirty story out of him.

Stiles can feel the anger that's been building up ever since Derek's oh-so-helpful visit the night before flare inside him and he can't keep the anger out of his voice. "The tests to tell me if my blood cells have decided to stage another fucking coup!"

"Stiles." Derek looks surprised at the outburst and holds his hands up placatingly.

Stiles has no interest in calming down. He looks Derek in the eyes and says, "When I was 7, my white blood cells got ambitious and decided to take over. As in, they declared civil war. My doctors responded by poisoning them into submission, after which they--speculation--retreated to my spine to wait in hiding until they were strong enough to launch a second offensive."

Derek looks so confused, his hands still in the air like he's warding off Stiles' anger, that the fury drains out of Stiles as suddenly as it came on. Exhausted, Stiles drops down to the bed and says, "I have cancer, Derek."

Derek slowly sits beside Stiles on the bed. He reaches out to touch the back of Stiles' hand tentatively, unsure of his welcome. "You're certain? That it's cancer?"

"What you said about the thing growing inside me, but not smelling foreign. Actually a pretty good description of my blood cells accumulating in one of my more important internal organs. But I had symptoms, too. I just thought they were a side effect of werewolves, not cancer."

Stiles is so tired. He stretches out beside Derek and doesn't complain when he doesn't leave. He can feel the ghost of Derek's fingers in his hair as he finally, gratefully, falls asleep.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 


	2. Stiles is a Polish forest magician

Stiles has dreams about going across the sea (dying, going to Poland to learn about his magic) and of going underground/ being in the root cellar beneath the nemeton (dying/ being dead). He goes to Deaton to talk about his dreams, thinking they are just weird dreams but Deaton is actually very deeply disturbed. He asks Stiles whether he has any familiarity with Polish folklore. Stiles says no, that he’s looked it up a little bit before but as far as he can tell most of it is just made up stuff. So Deaton asks him if he has any relatives in Poland, and Stiles says yeah, a few, like his mom’s mom and so on are still there. 

Deaton recommends that Stiles go to Poland for a little while. Stiles is shocked. Because he is needed there, in Beacon Hills. But Deaton is really serious, like No, Stiles, your life is in danger. Your magic is waking up and it’s telling you to pay attention. Your dreams when you were being possessed by the nogitsune, they were also a warning. They warned you to close the door and had we found a way to do so… Stiles understand what Deaton is saying. Had they closed the door in Stiles’ mind, maybe he wouldn’t have been possessed. Maybe Allison would be alive. So what are his dreams trying to warn him? 

Deaton explains that in Indo-European myth, there is a concept of a World Tree. “Oh, like in Thor? Nine dimensions on the tree, need a transdimensional bridge to go between them?” “Hmm..something like that. Typically there are only three worlds. The Leaves and branches of the tree represent the world of the gods, the trunk represents the earth, where we live, and the roots represents the underworld, or the world of the dead. That you are dreaming of being underneath the nemeton, within its roots, may be a warning that your life is in danger, or that you are in danger of becoming trapped between the world of the living and the dead, or anything, but it’s a warning we should pay attention to.”

Within a few weeks, Stiles finds himself packed up and shipped out of the country. To Poland. To live with some sort of magic friend of Deaton’s for the entire summer. 

There, he learns that he is meant to be a sort of caretaker to the forest. His great aunt, who teaches him, doesn’t have a lot of respect for emissaries like Deaton, who she regards as witches, who don’t protect the forest or the creatures who live within it. Stiles spends his days living like a hermit in his great aunt’s weird forest cottage. He spends hours in the woods. Animals come up to him and let him touch them like they know he’s not a threat to them. He walks the perimeter of the forest and feels the barrier of protective magic his ancestors have put in place and learns to reinforce it a little bit at a time. When intruders come near the edge of his forest, he learns to shake the earth just enough to toss them right back out on their ass, then goes back to the cottage to have tea and dried apples. He tries not to think about how the pack is faring without him. He calls his dad once a week, on Thursdays. His dad is happy that Stiles is staying with his mother’s family, and reconnecting with his mom’s heritage. He wants to hear all about the stories his great aunt tells him about his mom as a little girl, and now Stiles can tell him, since his dad is clued in. And his dad listens, too, doesn’t make any of the skeptical comments he makes sometimes about the werewolf stuff. His mom was really good with just, getting along with the forest creatures and things, but she never had the knack for magic that Stiles apparently inherited. It’s why Deaton ended up working for the Hales. Stiles tries not to think about how things might have turned out differently if his mom had been able to protect them. 

At the summer solstice, his great aunt and two other magically inclined wild looking, Polish-speaking people showed up. They gave him a bath in the river, which was less creepy than it sounds, after which he felt like he could feel every animal and tree and insect in the forest. Afterwards they had a bonfire and ate vegan junk food and drank apple wine until Stiles was completely drunk. He wandered out into the forest and came across a tree that felt extremely comforting to him. It almost echoed with magic. He could swear that if he just lay down on the ground and listened closer he could hear his mother calling out to him from the ground beneath the tree. Suddenly one of the young women who had joined him for the bathing ceremony was there, pulling him off the ground. “That’s not a good idea, young Stanislaw.” 

So the summer passes, and it’s time to go home.


	3. Stiles is Jackson Whitmore

Stiles doesn't remember it, really. He was still in diapers, after all, when Kate Argent burned his parents alive. But he dreams about it sometimes. 

Usually he's looking down at himself as he wobbles around on his padded butt in a muddy garden, zooming matchbox cars over his head while flames rise all around him. Those are the nicer dreams. 

The earliest memory that Stiles is fairly sure is real is of stepping off an underwater ledge in the Whittemore's outdoor pool. He figures there's something poetic about that. Fire and water. Death and rebirth. That's what he tells his latest idiot of a psychiatrist, anyway. 

***********************

The screeching alarm clock jolts Stiles out of bed and right onto the floor. He'd probably just roll over and go back to sleep on the carpet, but the damn thing has rolled itself off the nightstand and wedged itself underneath a dresser on the opposite side of the room. He's cursing his parents and wishing they couldn't afford crap like $300 robotic alarm clocks when Mrs. White knocks sharply on his bedroom door. 

"Breakfast, Mr. Whittemore. Don't make me tell you twice or you'll be dining starkers. Again." Her voice has gotten gravelly with age and cigarettes--and, Stiles suspects, a fair amount of off-duty brandy with the butler--but it's just as sharp as ever. 

Stiles shouts his acknowledgment through the door and stumbles to his bathroom and into the shower. When he walks back out, clean and clearer headed, he spots the shopping bags on the dresser and remembers why he had been looking forward to getting up today. 

He nearly runs to the bags and upends them onto the carpet in front of his full length mirror. So. Many. Options. He tries on at least 5 different pairs of pants before he settles on faded red skinny jeans that sit almost obscenely low on his hips. He tops them with a dark navy henley in a size too small, pointy leather ankle boots, and a rainbow striped belt. 

After a moment's hesitation, he also grabs the Sephora bag Lydia had pushed on him, and spent a solid 20 minutes applying, removing, reapplying, and smudging his eyeliner. He frowns at his hair in the mirror. It's still short, just long enough to make a sort of mini-mohawk in the front with enough gel and time. Stiles fusses with it until Mrs. White swings back by to knock pointedly at his bedroom door again. 

When he Stiles swings the door out from underneath her knuckles, he worries his lip as her stark white eyebrows climb up her forehead. "How you got that black on your eyes as neat as that with your jittery hands I'll never know. Your parents are at the table. Best hurry now." Then with a pat on his cheek and a waggle of her eyebrows, Mrs. White sends him off to the gallows.

It's not that Stiles is doing this to make a point to his parents. Well, not only anyway. He's been letting Lydia dress him up and cover him with makeup for years, and more recently he's been letting his friends at the drag bar do the same, often enough that he feels more comfortable in heeled boots and mascara than the topsiders and hair gel his parents would have him in. But in those cases he was surrounded by friends. Now he feels like he's rubbed fresh blood all over himself right before heading into the lion's den. 

But then it turns out he really didn't have anything to worry about. His dad is so busy arguing with his bluetooth he doesn't even notice. His mother takes one long, condescending look at him and returns to her grapefruit. Stiles stabs his pancakes hard enough to bend the silver tines and wonders why the fuck he ever thought they would care. 

As he's getting up to leave, his mother finally acknowledges him. "Don't forget about the gala tonight, George. You'll wash your face." It's not a question, so Stiles doesn't respond. He just nods and leaves. When he climbs into his porsche, he just rests his head against the steering wheel for a moment and wished his real parents had never died. 

********************

Walking down the hallway at school, Stiles keeps his shoulders back and his head high and heads directly towards Danny's locker. Lydia is already there, and smiles beautifully at him before turning her cheek for a kiss. There are times, like this, where Stiles sincerely wishes he and Lydia had ended up like their parents had wanted them to, as boyfriend and girlfriend instead of fag hag and token gay friend #2.


	4. Stiles and Derek with no plot

"Stiles has adjusted remarkably well to his recent loss. He is clever and exuberant, and makes friends easily, though he doesn't seem to get attached to many of them." (Progress Report from Mrs. Fisher, 3rd grade teacher, 2003). 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
As far as Stiles can tell, his whole life has been a comedy-come-slasher flick starring *Stiles Stilinski in the role of: Stiles Stilinski.* 

It started when his mother got sick. He figured out fast that everyone was happier when he shoved his grief and terror behind a mask of optimistic enthusiasm. After she died, he kept it going, because there wasn't enough space in the house for both his and his dad's grief. So the Sheriff made a valiant effort to smother his sorrow in alcohol and double shifts, and Stiles threw himself into becoming the happiest fucking kid in Beacon Hills. Granted, he ended up with a bottle of Ritalin and a reputation as a spaz for his efforts, but it seemed pretty successful overall. 

Eventually, he didn't even have to try very hard; he started to feel like he really was the hyperactive clown who adjusted remarkably well to his mother's death. But the only person Stiles could really relax around was Scott. For a while, at least. Maybe it was the werewolf thing that changed it. Or maybe it was the Allison thing. Or maybe it was just growing up and watching Scott change while Stiles stagnated, stuck reading the same lines out of the same script every damn day. 

Stiles was eighteen years old, and he couldn't stand himself anymore. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Stiles is lying on his bed with his head hanging off the edge and resting on the carpet, bouncing a rubber ball off the ceiling. It's an excellent position for contemplation. 

He's debating whether Lydia would have been more or less hot as a werewolf when he's startled by the sound of his window sliding open and the ball smacks him in the eye. 

"Did you just give yourself a black eye?"

Stiles scowls at Derek's upside down smirk through one eye. "You're the one that startled me. You're responsible for at least 40% of the damage. I'll send you a bill when I get back from the ER with my new glass eye."

"I could take care of the other eye, if you want, so you can get a matching set," Derek says, examining his claws. 

"No, no, that's OK," Stiles says as he tries to scramble backwards and manages to topple himself off the bed and right onto Derek's boots. 

Derek rolls his eyes and grabs Stiles' arm, pulling him back onto the bed, right side up this time, and sits down beside him. "Deaton wants us both to come to the clinic tomorrow morning." 

Stiles glares. "You couldn't have just texted?," he asks, and futily yanks at the pillow trapped under Derek's ass. 

Derek swings his legs up onto the bed, crossing his ankles and settling himself into a more comfortable position on Stiles' pillow. "My phone melted."

"How did--I don't even want to know how you managed to--wait, I *do* want to know how--"

"5:00 AM," Derek interjects. He folds his arms across his chest and closes his eyes. 

"Dude, that's two hours from now. I'm not going to…What are you doing? You can't sleep here."

"Go to bed, Stiles," Derek says, as his head falls back against the wall behind him. 

"You're in my fucking bed," Stiles responds. "Goddammit." He considers wrestling his pillow out from underneath an unconscious werewolf, thinks better of it, and scoops the ball up on his way to his desk. He plops himself into his computer chair, leans back, and tosses the ball at the ceiling. He can't remember what he was thinking about earlier. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~


	5. Stiles gets do-over days

Stiles gets do-over days. He uses it for the first time when he is a little kid, and his mom dies in a car crash, and he wishes so hard that the day would just start over again and—it does. He stops his mom from getting in the car that day by pretending to be really sick. He saves her. She stays alive long enough to be diagnosed with dementia and die really slowly. To forget him and his dad. To become someone he barely recognizes as his mom before—she still dies. 

Stiles swears he will never do it again. No matter how many humiliating situations he gets himself into, he manages to stop himself. Even when he gets into a pretty serious car accident shortly after he turns sixteen, he manages to stop himself before he thinks it. “No. I can handle this. Everyone is alive and I DON’T wish this day had never happened.” 

But then, werewolves. Stiles is completely minding his own business when he gets ATTACKED BY A RABID MAN-WOLF BEAST OKAY? Forgive him for forgetting himself a little bit while lying in a pool of his own blood in an abandoned parking garage. The day reset. Two weeks later, Scott was the one lying in a pool of blood. There’s a reason Stiles feels more than a little bit responsible for his friend’s new wolfy look.

So then, Stiles reaffirms his commitment to never, ever use the do-over days. Not even when Erica dies. Not when Heather dies. Not when Boyd dies. Not when Allison dies. He watches his friends drop around him like flies and feels their weight on his own shoulders. He wonders whether he shouldn’t have at least tried to save them. If maybe he was picking and choosing.


End file.
